Assassins

by Jim Eldridge

  £100 Reward leading to his capture.

  and

  Wanted

  In connection with a series of murders

  Naomi Pike

  If you see this woman or have any information about her,

  report her to your nearest police station.

  £100 Reward leading to her capture.

  The fourth was more involved:

  Wanted

  In connection with a series of murders

  Description: A young man with eyes of two different colours: one brown, one blue.

  If you see this man or have any information about him,

  report him to your nearest police station.

  This man may be armed and dangerous. Do not approach him.

  £100 Reward leading to his capture.

  He then began composing a piece to accompany the wanted posters, one that he could give to the newspapers.

  The people suspected of being behind the recent tragic murders of Lord Amersham, Tobias Smith MP and Mr Walter Parrot, the owner of the Daily Bugle newspaper, have now been identified as Alfred Rennick, a former soldier, Daniel Harker, Naomi Pike and a man who is so far unnamed, but is distinctive in his appearance because he has eyes of two different colours: one blue, one brown. It is vitally important that these people are apprehended before more of these heinous crimes are carried out. A reward of £100 each has been offered for their capture.

  If you see these people, or have any knowledge of their whereabouts, or information about their backgrounds, you are urged to contact Scotland Yard or your local police station.

  He was just putting the finishing touches to the piece, when there was a knock at his door.

  ‘Come in!’ he called.

  The door opened and a short, thin woman in her twenties appeared. She had long, dark hair that hung down, with a fringe almost covering her eyes, and a very sour expression on her thin face. Not unlike Naomi Pike, thought Stark. She was carrying a very large leather briefcase.

  ‘I assume you’re DCI Stark?’ she said brusquely.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stark.

  ‘Hester Pigeon,’ she said. ‘Your artist.’ As she came into the room and put her briefcase down, she added, ‘And if you’re going to say “But you’re a woman”, I’d point out that you don’t need physical strength to handle a stick of charcoal.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t going to say anything like that,’ said Stark.

  ‘Then you’ll be the first,’ grunted Pigeon. ‘They don’t want to use me. I make them feel uncomfortable. Just because my reproductive organs are on the inside and yours are on the outside.’

  Stark returned her warning glare with one of his own, feeling affronted. ‘Please don’t lump me in with the rest of my gender,’ he said stiffly. ‘All I want is an artist, not a lecture on sexual politics. Are you any good?’

  ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘But they don’t give me a chance. The only reason I’m here is because no one else was willing to come out at this hour.’

  ‘Right,’ said Stark. ‘We’ll start with the description of one of the men.’

  ‘How many are there?’ she asked.

  ‘Three. Two men and one woman.’

  She began to unpack her briefcase, taking out a large sketch pad and sticks of charcoal, along with a bundle of pencils. ‘I’m also cheaper than the men, which would make you think they’d employ me more, but they still don’t.’

  The door opened and Danvers returned, carrying the photograph, now safely back in its wooden frame, and some copies. ‘All done, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ said Stark, taking the photograph and putting it in his desk drawer. ‘This is Hester Pigeon, our artist. This is my sergeant, DS Danvers. Miss Pigeon is going to be drawing the pictures for the wanted posters.’

  ‘Sketches,’ Pigeon corrected him. ‘You wanted them done quickly, so they’ll be sketches. Proper pictures would take longer.’

  ‘As long as the faces can be recognized,’ said Stark.

  She set to work, charcoal moving swiftly and lightly over the blank pages in her pad, as Danvers and Stark described Dan Harker and Naomi Pike to her. Then Danvers gave his description, as far as he could remember it, of the man with the different-coloured eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he apologized when he’d finished giving it. ‘I only saw him for a few seconds.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sergeant,’ said Stark. ‘The business of the different-coloured eyes is what will jog people’s minds.’

  They watched as Hester Pigeon brought the faces to life on the page, her fingers rubbing out some of the charcoal lines and redrawing as Stark and Danvers talked, honing the illustrations, until at last Stark and Danvers agreed, ‘That’s them!’

  ‘Well done, Miss Pigeon,’ Stark congratulated her. ‘They are excellent. You have indeed brought them to life. In future, when I want something similar done, yours will be the first name I request.’

  Pigeon looked suspiciously at Stark to see if he was being sarcastic, but when she realized he wasn’t, she blushed slightly. ‘Thank you,’ she said formally, collecting her materials together.

  ‘Right, just two more things to do, Sergeant,’ said Stark. He indicated the photograph, the three charcoal portraits, the four drafts for the wanted posters, and the article he’d written to accompany them. ‘Would you take these to the Yard press office. There should be someone there at this hour; they’re always keen to find something to put into the early editions. Tell them we need this in all the papers first thing tomorrow morning. And on the front pages, not buried somewhere inside. Although I think the papers will be only too keen to splash it out as their lead story, especially the Bugle.

  ‘The other is to get those wanted posters distributed to every station, every railway terminus, every port. Just in case they try to make a run for it.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Danvers. He yawned. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m more tired than I realized.’

  ‘You’ve been on the go for close to twenty-four hours, and I’m not far behind you,’ said Stark. ‘Personally, I shall be in a little later tomorrow morning. I would advise you to do the same; otherwise you’ll be in no fit state for the onslaught that will engulf us tomorrow, once these pictures hit the street.’

  ‘Today, sir,’ Danvers corrected him. He pointed at the clock, which showed a quarter to four.

  Stark nodded, aware that a wave of tiredness was sweeping over him, and that he would succumb to falling asleep on his desk unless he departed for home.

  ‘What do we do if people start getting in touch and we’re not here, sir?’ asked Danvers. ‘I’m pretty sure the papers will be desperate for more information.’

  ‘Put Chief Superintendent Benson’s name at the bottom of the note for the papers,’ said Stark.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Danvers, and he left, bearing the papers.

  Stark got up from his chair and lifted his coat down from the coat rack. So far so good, he reflected. For the first time, we’ve made progress. But now comes the big one: who are the assassins, and who are their targets?

  FORTY

  It was the noises from downstairs that woke Stark. The sounds of his mother and Stephen talking, the rattle of pots and pans, the sound of coal being shovelled and put on the range.

  He looked at the clock beside his bed. Eight o’clock. He’d managed to get three and a half hours’ sleep.

  He considered turning over and going back to sleep, but he told himself, You made a promise to Stephen. If you don’t keep it this morning, it’s likely you won’t be able to keep it tomorrow, not once the story gets in the papers.

  Wearily, he dressed and went downstairs.

  Stephen was having breakfast, and Sarah was cooking.

  ‘I left you to sleep,’ she said. ‘I heard you come in and thought you needed it, but I was going to wake you for work at quarter past.’

  ‘I’m not going at my usual time,’ said Stark. ‘I thought I’d walk Stephen to school.’

  Stephen’s f
ace lit up at this, but his mother looked worried. ‘Your dad was going to take Stephen this morning.’

  Stark hesitated. He looked at his son, who looked hopefully back at him. ‘Perhaps we could take him together,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what he says. Is he out in the yard?’

  ‘He’s upstairs,’ said Sarah.

  Stark nodded and headed for the stairs.

  ‘He might still be asleep!’ she called after him appealingly.

  Stark ignored her and walked up the stairs, then along the landing to his parents’ bedroom, and knocked on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ came Henry’s voice.

  Stark turned the door handle and went in. His father was sitting, fully dressed, in an armchair, looking at a carpentry magazine. He regarded his son disdainfully.

  ‘I promised you I’d let you know if there was any progress with the killings before it got into the papers,’ Stark told him. ‘Well, we know who did it, who’s behind it, and why.’

  His father said nothing at first, just looked at him suspiciously. Then he asked, ‘Who?’

  ‘An ex-soldier called Alf Rennick, another ex-soldier called Dan Harker, a woman called Naomi Pike, and a man whose name we don’t know, but he’s got eyes of two different colours. We’ve put a notice about them in the papers, so you’ll see it.’

  His father frowned. ‘Why did they do it?’

  ‘Because they want to overthrow the society we’ve got and replace it with one they think would be fairer. They want to get rid of the aristocracy, and people who own factories, landlords, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Bolsheviks!’ sneered Henry. ‘Like the Russian Revolution.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Stark.

  ‘And when did you find all this out?’

  ‘Last night,’ said Stark. ‘That’s what Sergeant Danvers and I were up to. That’s why I didn’t get in till half past four this morning.’

  His father was silent, then he scowled and muttered angrily, ‘I thought you were with your fancy piece again.’

  ‘I was working,’ stated Stark. ‘And she is not my fancy piece.’ He then added, ‘I’m also walking Stephen to school this morning. I promised to take him a couple of days ago, but work kept getting in the way. Mum says you were taking him today. So I’m suggesting we could both go.’

  Henry looked at him in surprise. ‘You and me?’

  Stark nodded. ‘Why not? Three generations of Starks walking down the road together. It’ll give the neighbours something to talk about.’

  His father hesitated. Then, rather primly, he said, ‘I hope you’re going to wash yourself first.’

  Stark, Henry and Stephen left the house, with a goodbye kiss for Stephen from Sarah.

  ‘Take care crossing the road,’ she warned them.

  ‘We’re only going to the school,’ grumbled Henry crossly.

  ‘Yes, but some of these drivers are mad the way they race along.’

  They set off, Stephen in the middle, Stark holding his son’s hand, Henry walking stiffly beside them.

  We must look a fine trio, thought Stark, all three of us washed and scrubbed, best clothes on. Even Stephen seemed to have been dressed up for the occasion.

  As they walked down Camden Street, Henry said, ‘I used to walk with you to school.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Stark. ‘Depending on your work.’

  ‘Of course,’ said his father. ‘Work had to come first.’

  They crossed the road, then continued on the pavement on the other side.

  ‘Didn’t people think it was strange?’ asked Stark. ‘A man taking his son to school? It was women who did that.’

  Henry didn’t answer at first, then he answered gruffly, ‘You proud of Stephen? Does he mean a lot to you?’

  ‘Yes, of course!’ retorted Stark. ‘You know he does!’ And he squeezed his son’s hand as Stephen looked up at him and smiled.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Henry.

  They carried on in silence.

  He’s trying to tell me he loved me, Stark realized. Loved me enough to face ridicule for a man walking his young son to school.

  They got to the gates of the school, and Stark remembered all those years ago when he’d come to these same gates, and waved to his mother or father before walking through into the playground.

  They watched Stephen go in and join some friends, then they turned and walked back up Camden Street.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ said Stark. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  There was a pause, then Henry said gruffly, ‘I suppose you want me to say sorry, too?’

  ‘No,’ said Stark.

  ‘Well, don’t think I’m letting you have the upper hand on this,’ snorted Henry. ‘I’m saying sorry whether you like it or not!’ They walked on a bit further in silence, then he added with a grumble, ‘I still think it’s wrong.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You and her.’

  Stark picked up a newspaper from the vendor outside Scotland Yard. The story was on the front pages of all of them, he was pleased to note.

  Danvers was already in the office, and so was Inspector Rogers from Special Branch, who was sitting in a chair and leapt to his feet as Stark came in.

  ‘Inspector Rogers of Special Branch has been waiting for you, sir,’ said Danvers. ‘And Chief Superintendent Benson would like to see you urgently.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Stark. He nodded at the obviously furious Rogers. ‘Good morning, Inspector. I trust you are well.’

  Rogers didn’t reply. He glared at Stark, obviously seething, barely containing his anger. ‘Would you give us a moment, Sergeant?’ he said to Danvers, but his angry gaze remained on Stark.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ said Danvers.

  As soon as Danvers had left the office, Rogers picked up a newspaper from the desk and brandished it angrily at Stark. ‘What is this?’ he demanded.

  ‘It looks suspiciously to me like a newspaper,’ said Stark calmly. ‘Of course, I expect that’s a result of my training as a detective.’

  Rogers stared at him, bewildered. Then the anger came back into his face again. ‘Are you trying to be insolent?’ he shouted.

  ‘You can only be insolent to someone considered superior,’ said Stark, remaining calm as he took off his overcoat and hung it on the hook. ‘You are only an inspector. I am a chief inspector.’

  ‘Special Branch outranks the police!’ snarled Rogers.

  ‘Its personnel certainly act as if they believe it does.’

  Once again, Rogers brandished the newspaper at Stark, the wanted posters displayed prominently on the front page. ‘Why have you put this out about Dan Harker?’ he demanded. ‘You know he’s one of our undercover agents!’

  ‘He’s also an agent for the Hand of Justice,’ said Stark. ‘While he’s been pretending to work for you, he’s been passing back to them as much information about Special Branch activities as he could worm out of you.’

  Rogers gave a derisive snort. ‘The Hand of Justice!’ he repeated, mockingly. ‘There’s no such organization!’

  ‘Yes, there is, and I talked to one of its members last night. The man whose photograph is on the front page. Alf Rennick. He shot Lord Amersham, Tobias Smith and Walter Parrot.’

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’

  ‘Because he told me so. And I know Alf Rennick well enough to know if he was lying. He served under me during the war.’

  Rogers stared at Stark, aghast. ‘And you let him go?’

  ‘As he had a gun on me, and I was unarmed, I didn’t have a lot of choice.’

  ‘You could have thrown yourself at him!’

  ‘And got myself shot, and so been unable to pass on to anyone what I’d found out? That wouldn’t have been much help, would it? Out of curiosity, are those other two also yours: Naomi Pike and the mystery man with the different-coloured eyes?’

  Rogers shook his head, still angry, and he held up the newspaper again. ‘This is all nonsense, Stark! We told you
who was responsible for the murders! The Irish!’

  Stark shook his head. ‘No, Rogers, you told me who you wanted me to believe was responsible for the murders.’

  Rogers glared at Stark. ‘This is because of your grandmother, isn’t it? Catholic from Cork. You’re one of them!’

  Stark looked at Rogers and then laughed. ‘Because my grandmother came from Cork in the last century, you think I’m covering up for the Irish delegation?’

  ‘Yes! You Irish go a long way back! You’re always quoting history to justify your bloody actions!’

  Stark shook his head. ‘I investigated the Irish delegation, as you suggested, and it didn’t add up.’ He pointed at the newspaper that Rogers was still clutching. ‘These people, however, are real. And guilty. Rennick certainly; Harker, Pike and the other man possibly so. We shall know for sure when we catch them.’ His expression hardened as he added, ‘However, you, Rogers, and your chief inspector, are guilty of perverting the course of justice by deliberately diverting attention away from the real culprits for your own political ends. Let me guess? The Unionist cause?’

  Rogers was almost shaking with speechless fury as he glared at Stark. Finally, he burst out, ‘I’ll have you, you Fenian bastard!’

  With that, he marched across the office to the door, wrenched it open and stormed out. Sergeant Danvers reappeared a moment later, came in and shut the door.

  ‘Did you hear all that, Sergeant?’ asked Stark.

  ‘Well, the inspector did raise his voice a great deal,’ said Danvers awkwardly.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ agreed Stark. ‘I believe he was very upset about something.’ He looked at the clock. ‘Ten o’clock. I think I’d better go and see the chief superintendent. I assume he was as agitated as Inspector Rogers?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Danvers warily.

  Stark nodded. ‘I always knew this was going to be an interesting day,’ he said with a smile.

  FORTY-ONE

  Benson was on the telephone when Stark knocked at his door and looked in. Stark was about to leave and pull the door shut again, but Benson waved him in. Benson listened and nodded, every now and then opening his mouth to say something, but each time being cut off. Finally, he said, ‘Yes, sir. I shall be seeing DCI Stark immediately.’